Page 53 of Lost in the Reins

"Very romantic," I say, but I'm smiling despite myself.

"Shut up and hand me the tissues." She burrows back into the quilt, but not before I catch her own smile. "And for the record, this is definitely going in my next book."

"The sneezing?"

"The way you pretend not to care when you obviously do." Her voice is muffled by the quilt but still hits its mark. "It's very authentic."

I grunt but don't deny it. Maybe it's the fever, or maybe I'm just tired of pretending. "Your readers want romance, not reality."

"No." She peers at me over the edge of the quilt. "They want truth. Even when it's messy and complicated and involves two stubborn people who'd rather get sick together than admit they might actually need each other."

Before I can respond to that particular piece of insight, another coughing fit hits. She reaches over, her hand finding mine without hesitation. And maybe it's the fever, or maybe it's just time, but I let her hold on.

I smell burning toast before I hear her in the kitchen, and something tugs in my chest that has nothing to do with lingering congestion. She's been doing this since the fever broke—trying to prove she's fine by taking on tasks she's not ready for. "You're burning the toast." My voice still carries traces of the cold, but I can't quite hide my amusement.

"I'm caramelizing it." She rescues what looks like charcoal from the toaster, her hands trembling with the effort of staying upright. "Very gourmet."

"Very burnt." I move beside her, close enough to catch the scent of Emma's cotton candy shampoo mixed with something uniquely her. "Sit before you fall over."

"I'm fine." The words come automatically, stubborn as ever, but she's swaying slightly where she stands.

"Sure, you are." Without thinking too hard about it, I guide her to a chair, my hands lingering longer than they should on her shoulders. "That's why you're swaying like a fence post in high wind."

She doesn't argue, which tells me more about how she's feeling than any words could. Paisley Monroe admitting defeat is about as rare as Bernard being humble.

"I hate being sick." She slumps in the chair, looking small and frustrated in my old Whispering Pines T-shirt.

"Really? Because you've been such a joy these past few days." I set water in front of her, using the routine of breakfast preparation to distract myself from how right she looks in my clothes. "Drink."

"Bossy." But she drinks anyway, watching me move around the kitchen.

The past few days blur together in my mind—shared blankets and tissues, her fever-warm weight against my side as we argued about TV shows, the way she'd curl into me during coughing fits like she belonged there. Now that we're both mostly clear-headed, I should be rebuilding those careful walls. Should be remembering all the reasons I decided this couldn't work.

Instead, I find myself watching her in the morning light, memorizing details I have no business noticing. How her hair falls in messy waves around her face, still damp from the shower. The way she wraps both hands around her water glass like she'strying to anchor herself. How she's stopped pretending this isn't home.

"Jake's bringing Emma home today." I say this casually, like it won't completely shift whatever fragile peace we've found in our shared convalescence. "Doctor says we're past the contagious stage."

"Oh." She stares into her water glass like it might hold answers neither of us is ready for. "That's... good."

"Yeah." I pause in my breakfast preparations, something tight coiling in my chest. "However, she might be disappointed we didn't actually die of the plague like she was betting."

"Betrayed by our own immune systems." Her laugh still carries traces of congestion, but it hits me the same way it always does—warm and real and dangerously addictive.

I watch her over my coffee cup, taking in how the morning light catches her hair, the way my shirt hangs loose on her frame like it's found a better home. She looks better today—still pale, but her eyes are clearer, more focused. Unfortunately, that means my excuses for keeping her close are running out.

"You should eat something." I set a plate of actually not-burnt toast in front of her, trying to ignore how her fingers brush mine when she takes it. "Before Jake brings the tornado home."

"Emma's not a tornado." Her smile does things to my chest I'm not ready to examine. "She's more like... a very enthusiastic summer storm."

"That destroys everything in its path?"

"That brings life to everything she touches." Her voice goes soft, thoughtful in that way that usually means I'm about to hear something that'll crack my walls. "Like someone else I know."

I busy myself with the coffee pot, needing distance from the way she sees right through me. "You're still feverish."

"And you're still deflecting." She takes a bite of toast, watching me with those eyes that catch everything. "Though Ihave to admit, your technique's improving. Very smooth subject change."

"Learned from the best." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms like that might protect me from whatever's building between us. "You've got deflection down to an art form."

---